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SELECTIONS 



FROM 



V 

WORDSWOETH 



WITH A 



BRIEF SKETCH OF HIS LIFE 






CINCINNATI 

ROBERT CLARKE & CO 

1886 



cr 



Copyright 
By ROBERT CLARKE & CO 

ISSG 



WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 

No course of reading for teachers would be complete 
from which has been omitted the greatest name in English 
literature since Milton. 

William Wokdsworth was born in Cockermouth, a town 
among the Cumberland hills, April 7, 1770. His father 
was an attorney, and was agent for the estate of the first 
Earl of Lonsdale. His mother died when he was in his 
eighth year, and his father five years afterward. He first 
attended scliool at Penrith, whither his parents had gone 
to reside, and after his mother's death he was transferred 
to the public scliool at Hawkshead; he remained in this 
school until 1787, when, under the guardianship of his 
uncles, he entered St. John's College, Cambridge. Neither 
at Hawkshead nor Cambridge did he exhibit the traits of 
the student. He disliked botli discipline and systematic 
study, but read a good deal, after a desultory fashion, par- 
ticularly of the English classics. He took his bachelor's 
degree in 1791, but without distinction. After taking this 
degree, he resided in France for more than a year. This 
brought him into immediate contact with the French 
revolution, which filled him with enthusiasm. He became 
intimate with the party of the Gironde, but whilst he was 
meditatingthe taking of an active part in tlie direction of the 
revolution, circumstances compelled his return to England. 
This was just before his Girondist friends were sent in a body 
to the scaflfbld. If it had not been for this timely return, 
possibly he might have shared their fate. Years after he 

3 



4: SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH S POEMS. 

abjured his radical principles for a liberal and humane 
conservatism. 

It was designed that Wordsworth should enter the 
church, but he turned from both the pi'ofession of the 
pulpit and of the bar with the determination of devoting 
himself entirely to poetry. His first public utterance in 
verse was made in 1 79.3. He published two poems that 
year, Descriptive Sketches and an Evening Walk. They at- 
tracted no attention, and brought him no money. 

He was now reduced to great pecuniary straits. His 
funds were about exhausted, but he was resolved to. adhere 
to the poet's work. But as poetry did not pay, how was he 
to obtain a subsistence? At this dark moment (1795), 
a young friend and admirer, Raisley Calvert, dying, left 
him the sum of £900. On this sum, he and his sister 
Dorothy, who were most tenderly attached to each other, 
managed to live for nearly eight years, illustrating in a 
most striking way his own motto of " plain living and high 
thinking." 

In 1797, the brother and sister were visited by Coleridge, 
when began that intimate and noble friendship which was 
only ended by death. 

The Lyricid Ballads, including Coleridge's Ancient Manner, 
were published in 1798. They met with no popular suc- 
cess, and were assailed with ridicule by the critics. In 
them, however,^' might have been discovered, had these 
critics been wise, veins of a new and precious kind of 
poetry. 

In 1802, the sum of about £8,000, a long contested claim 
against the estate of Lord Lonsdale for services rendered 
by the father of the Wordsworths as agent, was paid over 
to the family. The poet and his sister received one-half of 
it, this sum assuring them a modest comj^etence. In the 
course of this year, Wordsworth married his cousin, Mary 
Hutchinson, to whom, after three years of married life, he 
addressed the charming lines, " She was a phantom of delight''^ 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH S POEMS. 

This estimable lady survived her husband nine years, dy- 
ing in 1859 at an advanced age. 

The Lyrical Ballads were reprinted in 1802, and again in 
1805. By this time they began to attract something of 
public favor, and were received with enthusiasm by Wilson, 
DeQuincy, Leigh Hunt, and other rising young men of 
literary ability. 

In 1813, Lord Lonsdale procured Wordsworth the office- 
of distributor of stamps for the county of Westmoreland, 
with a salary of £500. This office was almost a sinecure, 
and in no way interfered with his literary pursuits. This 
year he removed to Eydal Mount, which commands a 
beautiful view of Rydal lake and a part of Windermere. 
This delightful spot, so fully adapted to poetic musings, 
continued to be his home the remainder of his life. 

In 1814 was published The Excursion, the greatest of his 
extended poems, and the one on which his fame largely 
rests. But the critics had not yet been entirely won over, 
and at this production, Jeffrey, of the EcUnburgh Review, 
flung the contemptuous remark, " this will never do." 
The Excursion is but one of the parts of a vast philosojihi- 
cal poem Wordsworth contemplated writing, and which 
was to -embody views of men, nature, and society. The 
main poem was to be entitled The Recluse. The Prelude, 
the opening to The Recluse, although written in 1805, was 
not published until after the poet's death. 

Wordsworth is a most voluminous writer, his sonnets 
alone numbering up among the hundreds. It is, therefore, 
impossible in a short sketch like this to name even his 
leading poems. 

In the decade between 1830 and 1840, his reputation 
arose with immense rapidity, and it now is so firmly estab- 
lished as never likely to be shaken. He visited Oxford in 
1839, and was received with the utmost enthusiasm, the 
university conferring on him the degree of D. C. L. In 
1842, he was permitted to resign his office of distributor of 



b SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH S POEMS. 

stamps in favor of his son, and received a pension of 
£300. In 1843, he succeeded Southey as Poet Laureate. 
After a short illness, on the anniversary of the birth and 
death of Shakspere, in the year 1850, was closed the pure 
and serene life of tliis great poet. 

WoRD.swouTH composed his poems mostly as he walked 
in his garden, or in some spot where he was not liable to 
interruption. His mind worked best with the open world, 
which he loved so well, spread around him. 

Word.sworth's self-confidence and his frank expression 
of it have scarcely had their parallel. He believed in him- 
self and his theories so thoroughly that no amount of 
neglect or severity of criticism seemed to disturb him. 
He bided his time with an unaflFected serenity and con- 
fidence. It is true he was not reluctant to enter the arena 
in support of his views, but he never seemed to entertain 
for a moment the thought that his was not to be a winning 
fight. Indeed, he assumed it as a great credit to himself, 
and as among the most striking proofs of his genius, 
that he was thus neglected by the public and condemned 
by the critics; and he entered into a lengthy argument to 
prove that all the great creative intellects of the world had 
lacked the appreciation of their contemporaries, and that 
from the very nature of things this must always be so. 

Wordsworth had a theory of poetry peculiarly his own — 
and on the whole a noble theorj'^ it is. And from the 
application of this theory have sprung, in a measure, his 
strength and his weakness. In pursuance of this theory 
he rejected with an intense scorn what he considered 
the stage machinery and the swelling and unnatural 
diction in such familiar use bv the poets, and for the sub- 
jects of his verse chose the commonest incidents of life and 
the most ordinary manifestations of nature. He recognized 
no difference between the proper language of verse and of 
prose. The language of the common people he deemed 
best fitted for the purposes of the real poet. He says, 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH S POEMS. / 

" poetry sheds no tears ' such as angels weep,' but natural 
and human tears; she can boast of no celestial ichor that 
distinguishes her vital juices from those of prose; the 
same human blood circulates through the veins ot both." 
It is to be feared, however, that he too often mistook " a 
commonplace realism for simplicity." 

This theory naturally led to a distinguishing originality. 
The artificialities that had from the time of the Restoration 
entered so largely into the thought and structure of 
English verse were swept aside, and verse that strove to 
penetrate to the core of things by the simplest means was 
substituted. And never has nature and na/;ec/ humanity (to 
use Wordsworth's own word), been handled with more 
consummate power by any English poet. By adopting 
the language of common prose as that best fitted 
for poetry, Wohdswokth did not mean to underestimate 
the value of style; for this he has somewhere defined as 
the incarnation of thoughts. But while this theory looks in 
the right direction, it is too narrow, and its author him- 
self, in his moi-e elevated compositions, is often found 
transcending its limits. Of this we have marked examples 
in the Ode on Jmrnortali/i/ and in parts of The Excursion, 
"which bristle with dictionary words." As DeQuincy well 
says: "The gamut of ideas needs a corresponding gamut 
of expressions; the scale of the thinking, which ranges 
through every key, exacts for the artist an unlimited com- 
mand over the entire scale of the instrument which he 
employs." But wherein this theory of poetic style most 
proves a source of weakness is that the author seems 
often to have it obtruded on his attention in the highes*: 
flights of his muse; and, seemingly, to maintain his con- 
sistency, he weaves into a texture of marvelous grandeur 
and beauty conceits and language of the most puerile 
character. 

It is to be suspected that Wordsworth had not the or- 
ganizing power to construct a great, continuous and sym- 



8 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTh'.S POEMS. 



metrical work of art. But after all deduction.s have been 
made, it is believed Matthew Arnold's estimate will be 
found in strict accordance with the truth : " On the whole, 
not only is Wordswouth eminent by reason of the good- 
ness of his best work, but he is eminent by reason of the 
great body of the good work he has left us." It is also 
safe to say, as Emerson has done, that in his best work 
Wordsworth has touched the high-water mark of poetry.' 
Whosoever, therefore, shall become acquainted with this 
master will be brought into communion with a genius 
calm, and at the same time inspiring, a genius who recog- 
nized the loftiness of his art, and consecrated it to the in- 
terests of humanity. 

In the selections here given no attempt has been made 
farther than to present such examples of the different 
kinds of Wordsworth's verse as will convey to the student 
some notion of the scope of the author's powers, and will 
prove an inducement to a larger reading. 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWOKTH S POEMS. 



ODE. 

INTIMATIONS OF XINIMORTALITY FROM RECOLLECTIONS 
OF EARLY CHILDHOOD. 

The Child is Father of the Man ; 
Aud I could wisli my days to be 
Bound each to eacli by natural piety. 

I. 
There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream, 
The earth, and every common sight, 
To me did seem 

Apparelled in celestial light, 
The glory and the freshness of a dream. 
It is not now as it hath been of yore; 

Turn wheresoe'er I may. 

By night or day, 
The thing which I have seen I now can see no more. 

II. 

The Rainboiv comes and goes. 

And lovely is the Rose, 

The Moon doth with delight 
Look round her when the heavens are hare; 

Waters on a starry night 

Are beautiful and fair; 
The sunshine is a glorious birth; 
But yet I know, where'er I go, 
That there hath passed away a glory from the earth. 

in. 
Now, while the Birds thus sing a joyous song, 
And while the young Lambs bound 



10 SELECTIOXS FUOM WO^.DS^rORTII's POEMS. 

As to the tabor's sound, 
To me alone there came a thought of grief; 
A timely utterance gave that thought relief, 

Andl again am strong: 
The Cataracts blow their trumpets from the steep; 
iSTo more shall grief of mine the season wrong; 
I hear the Echoes through the mountains throng, 
The Winds came to me from the nekls of sleep, 

And all the earth is g/iy ; 
Land and sea 
Give themselves up to jollity, 

And with the heart of May 
Doth every Beast keep holiday ; — 

Thou Child of Joy, 
Shout round me, let me hear thy shouts, thou happy 

Shepherd Boy ! 

IT. 

Ye blessed Creatures, I have heard the call 

Ye to each other make; I see 
The heavens laugh with you in the Jubilee; 

My heart is at your festival, 

My head hath its coi'onal, 
The fullness of your bliss I feel — I feel it all. 

Oh evil day ! if I were sullen 

"While the Earth itself is adorning 
This sweet May morning, 

And the Children are j^uUing, 
On every side. 

In a thousand valleys far and wide. 

Fresh flowers'; while the sun shines warm 
And the Babe leaps up on his mother's arm: — 

I hear, 1 hear, with joy I hear ! 

— But there's a Tree, of many one, 
A single Field which I have looked upon, 
Both of them speak of something that is gone; 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSAVORTh's POEMS. IT 

The Pansy at my feet 

Doth the same tale repeat; 
Whither has fled the visionary gleam ? 
Where is it now, the glory and the dream? 

V. 

Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting; 
The Soul that rises with us, our life's Star, 

Hath had elsewhere its setting, 
And Cometh from afar, 

Not in entire forgetfulness, 

And not in utter nakedness, 
But trailing clouds of glory do we come 

From God, who is our home: 
Heaven lies about us in our infancy ! 
Shades of the prison-house begin to close 

Ujion the growing Boy, 
But He beholds the light, and whence it flows, 

He sees it in his joy; 
The Youth, who daily farther from the East 

Must travel, still is Nature's Priest, 

And by the vision splendid 

Is on his way attended ; 
At length the Man perceives it die away, 
And fade into the night of common day. 

VI. 

Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own; 

Yearnings she hath in her own natural kind, 

And, even with something of a Mother's mind 
And no unworthy aim, 
Tlie homely Nurse doth all she can 

To make her Foster-child, her Inmate Man, 
Forget the glories he hath known, 

And that imperial palace whence he came. 



12 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTh's POEMS. 

VII. 

Behold the child among his new-born blisses, 
A six years' Darling of a pigmy size ! 
See, where 'mid work of his own hand he lies, 
Fretted by sallies of his Mother's kisses, 
With light upon him from his Father's eyes 
See, at his feet, some little plan or chart, 
Some fragment from his dream of human life, 
Shaped by himself with newly-learned art, 

A wedding or a festival, 

A mourning or a funeral; 

And this hath now his heart, 

And unto this he frames his song 
Then will be fit his tongue 
To dialogues of business, love, or strife ; 

But it will not be long 

Ere this be thrown aside, 

And with new joy and pride 
The little actor cons another part; 
Filling from time to time his '' humorous stage " 
With all the Persons, down to palsied Age, 
That life brings with her in her Equipage; 

As if his whole vocation 

Were endless imitation. 

VIII. 

Thou, whose exterior semblance doth belie 

Thy Soul's immensity; 
Thou best Philosopher, who yet doth keep 
Thy hei'itage; thou Eye among the blind. 
That, deaf and silent, read'st the eternal deep. 
Haunted forever by the eternal mind, — 

Mighty Prophet ! Seer, blest! 

On whom those truths do rest, 
Which we are toiling all our lives to find, 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTh's POEMS. 13 

In darkness lost, the darkness of the grave; 
Thou, over whom thy Immortality 
Broods like the Day, a Master o'er a Slave, 
A presence which is not to be put by ; 
Thou little Child, yet glorious in the night 
Of heaven-born freedom on thy being's height, 
Why with such earnest pains dost thou provoke 
The years to bring the inevitable yoke. 
Thus blindly with thy blessedness at strife? 
Full soon thy Soul shall have her earthly freight, 
And custom lie upon thee with a weight, 
Heavy as frost, and deep almost as life I 



joy ! that in our embers 
Is something that doth live. 
That nature yet remembers 
What was so fugitive 
The thought of our past years in me doth breed, 
Perpetual benediction; not indeed 
For that which is most worthy to be blest- 
Delight and liberty, the simple creed 
Of Childhood, whether busy or at i-est. 
With new-fledged hope still fluttering in his breast 
Not for thee I raise 
The song of thanks and praise ; 
But for those obstinate questionings 
Of sense and outward things, 
Fallings from us, vanishings; 
Blank misgivings of a Creature 
Moving about in worlds not realized. 
High instincts before which our mortal Nature 
Did tremble like a guilty Thing surprised: 
But for those first affections, 
Those shadowy recollections, 
Which, be they what they may. 



14 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH's POEMS. 

Are yet the fountain light of all our day, 
Are yet a master light of all our seeing ; 

Uphold us, cherish, and have power to make 
Our noisy years seem moments in the being 
Of the eternal Silence; truths that wake 

To perish never; 
Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavor, 

Nor Man nor Boy, 
Nor all that is at enmity with joy, 
Can utterly abolish or destroy ! 

Hence in a season of calm weather 

Though inland far we be, 
Our souls have sight of that immortal sea. 

Which brought us hither. 

Can in a moment travel thither, 
And see the Children sport upon the shore, 
A.nd hear the mighty w^aters rolling evermore. 



Then sing, ye Birds, sing, sing a joyous song 
And let the young Lambs bound 
As to the tabor's sound I 
We in thought will join your throng. 

Ye that pipe and ye that play. 
Ye that through your hearts to-day 
Feel the gladness of the May ! 
What though the radiance which was once so bright 
Be now forever taken fi-om my sight. 
Though nothing can bring back the hour 
Of splendor in the grass, of glory in the flower; 
We will grieve not, rather find 
Strength in what remains behind; 
In the primal sympathy 
Which having been must ever be; 
In the soothing thoughts that spring 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTh's POEMS. 15 

Out of human suffering; 
In the faith that looks through death, 
In years that bring the philosophic mind. 

XI. 

And 0, ye Fountains, Meadows, Hills, and Groves, 

Forbode not any severing of our loves ! 

Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might; 

I only have relinquished one delight, 

To live beneath your more habitual sway. 

I loved the Brooks which down their channels fret, 

Even more than when I tripped lightly as they; 

The innocent brightness of a new-born Day 

Is lovely yet 
The Clouds that gather round the setting sun 
Do take a sober coloring from an eye 
That hath kept watch o'er man's mortality 
Another race hath been, and other palms are won. 
Thanks to the human heart by which w^e live, 
Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears, 
To me the meanest flower that blows can give 
Thoughts that too often lie too deep for tears. 



TINTERN ABBEY. 

Composed a few miles above Tintern Abbey, on revisiting the banlis 
of the Wye during a tour, July 1:5, 1798. 

Five years have passed, five summers, with the length 

Of live long winters! and again 1 hear 

These waters, rolling from their mountain-springs 



16 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTh's POEMS. 

With a soft inland murmur. Once again 
Do I behold these steep and lofty cliffs, 
That on a wild, secluded scene impress 
Thoughts of more deep seclusion, and connect 
The landscape with the quiet of the sky. 
The day has come when I again repose 
Here, under this dark sycamore, and view 
These pilots of cottage-ground, these orchard-tufts, 
Which at this season, with their unripe fruits, 
Are clad in one green hue, and lose themselves 
'Mid groves and copses. Once again I see 
These hedge-rows, hardly hedge-rows, little lines 
Of sportive wood run wild ; the pastoral farms. 
Green to the very door; and wreaths of smoke 
Sent up, in silence, from among the trees ! 
With some uncertain notice, as might seem 
Of vagrant dwelle.'"s in the houseless woods, 
Of some Hermit's cave, where by his lire 
The Hermit sits alone. 

These beauteous forms. 
Through a long absence, have not been to me 
As is a landscape to a blind man's eye; 
But oft, in lonely rooms, and 'mid the din 
Of towns and cities, 1 have owed to them, 
In hours of weariness, sensations sweet, 
Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart; 
And passing even into my purer mind. 
With tranquil restoi'ation : — feelings too 
Of unremembered pleasure; such, perhaps, 
As have no slight or trivial influence 
On that best portion of a good man's life, 
His little, nameless, unremembered acts 
Of kindness and of love. Nor less, I trust, 
To them I may have owed another gift. 
Of aspect more sublime ; that blessed mood, 



SELECTIOXS FROM WORDSWORTH's POEMS. 17 

In which the burden of the mystery, 

In which the heavy and the weary weight 

Of all this unintelligible world, 

Is lightened: — that serene and blessed mood, 

In which the affections gently lead us on, — 

Until, the breath of this corporeal frame 

And even the motion of our human blood 

Almost suspended, we are laid asleep 

In body, and become a living soul; 

While with an eye made quiet by the power 

Of harmony, and the deep jjower of joy. 

We see into the life of things. 

If this 
Be but a vain belief, yet, oh ! how oft — 
In darkness and amid the many shapes 
Of joyless daylight; when the fretful stir 
Unprofitable, and the fever of the world, 
Have hung upon the beatings of niy heart — 
How oft, in spirit, have I turned to thee, 

sylvan Wye ! thou wanderer through the woods, 
How often has my spirit turned to tliee ! 

And now, with gleams of lialf-extinguished thought, 

With many recognitions dim and faint. 

And somewhat of a sad perplexity. 

The picture of the mind revives again ; 

While here I stand, not only with the sense 

Of present pleasure, but with pleasing thoughts 

That in this moment there is life and food 

For future years. And so I dare to hope, 

Though changed, no doubt, from what I was when first 

1 came among these hills; when like a roe 
I bounded o'er the mountains, by the sides 
Of the deep rivers, and the lonely streams, 

2 



18 SELECTIONS FROM AVORDSWORTH's POEMS. 

Wherever nature led ; more like a man 

Flying from something that he dreads, than one 

Who sought the thing he loved. For nature then 

(The coarser pleasures of my boyish days 

And their glad animal movements all gone by) 

To me was all in all. — I can not paint 

What then I was. The sounding cataract 

Haunted me like a passion, the tall rock, 

The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood. 

Their colors and their forms, were then to me 

An appetite; a feeling and a love, 

That had no need of a remoter charm 

By thoughts supplied, nor any interest 

Unborrowed from the eye. — That time is past 

And all its aching joys are now no more, 

And all itsidizzy raptures. Not for this 

Faint I, nor mourn, nor murmur; other gifts 

Have followed ; for such loss, I would believe, 

Abundant recompense. For I have learned 

To look on nature, not as in the hour 

Of thoughtless youth ; but hearing oftentime 

The still sad music of humanity. 

Nor harsh, nor grating, though of ample power 

To chasten and subdue. And I have felt 

A presence that disturbs me with the joy 

Of elevated thoughts; a sense sublime 

Of something far more deej^ly interfused, 

Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns, 

And the round ocean, and the living air. 

And the blue sky, and in the mind of man; 

A motion and a spirit, that impels 

All thinking things, all objects of all thoughts, 

And rolls through all things. Therefore am I still 

A lover of the meadows and the woods, 

And mountains; and of all that we behold . 

Of this green earth; of all the mighty world 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTh's POEMS. 19 

Of eye and ear, — both what they half create 
And what perceive; well pleased to recognize 
In nature and the language of the sense, 
The anchor of my purest thoughts, the nurse. 
The guide, the guardian of iiiy heart, and soul 
Of all my mortal being. 

Nor percTiance, 
If I were not thus taught, should I the more 
Suffer my genial spirits to decay ; 
For thou art with me here upon the banks 
Of this fair river; thou, my dearest Friend, 
My dear, dear, Friend; and in thy voice I catch 
The language of my former heart, and read 
My former pleasures in the shooting lights 
Of thy wild eyes. 0, yet a little while 
May I behold in thee what I was once, 
My dear, dear Sister! and this prayer I make, 
Knowing that nature never did betray 
The heart that loved her; 't is her privilege. 
Through all the years of this our life, to lead 
From joy to joy, for she can so inform 
The mind that is within us, so impress 
With quietness and beauty, and so feed 
With lofty thoughts, that neither evil tongues. 
Rash judgments, nor the sneers of selfish men. 
Nor greetings where no kindness is, nor all 
The dreary intercourse of daily life. 
Shall e'er prevail against us, or disturb 
Our cheerful faith, that all which we behold 
Is full of blessings. Therefore, let the moon 
Shine on thee in thy solitary walk; 
And let the misty mountain-winds be free 
To blow against thee; and, in after years. 
When these wild ecstasies shall be matured 
Into a sober pleasure; when thy mind 



20 SELECTIONS FROM WORDS\yORTH's POEMS. 

Shall be a mansion for all lovely forms, 

Thy mewiory be as a dwelling-place 

For all sweet sounds and harmonies. 0, then, 

If solitude, or fear, or pain, or grief. 

Should be thy portion, with what healing thoughts 

Of tender joy wilt thou remember me, 

And these my exhortations I Nor, perchance, — 

If I should be where I no more can hear 

Thy voice, nor catch from thy wild eyes these gleams 

Of past existence, — wilt thou then forget 

That on the banks of this delightful stream 

We stood together; and that I, so long 

A worshiper of Nature, hither came 

Unweai'ied in that service; rather say 

With warmer love, — oh ! with far deeper zeal 

Of holier love. Nor wilt thou then forget. 

That after many wanderings, many years 

Of absence, these steep woods and lofty cliffs. 

And this green pastoral landscape were to me 

More dear, both for themselves and for thy sake. 



I WANDERED LONELY AS A CLOUD. 

I wandered lonely as a cloud 

That floats on high o'er vales and hills, 

When all at once I saw a crowd, 
A host of golden daffodils. 

Beside the lake, beneath the trees, 

Fluttering and dancing in the breeze. 

Continuous as the stars that shine 
And twinkle on the milky way, 



SELECTION'S FROM WOUDSWORTh's POEMS. 21 

They stretched in never-ending line 

Along the margin of a bay ; 
Ten thousand saw I at a glance, 
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance. 

The waves beside them danced; but they 

Outdid the sparkling waves in glee; 
A poet could not but be gay 

In such a jocund company: 
I gazed, — and gazed, — but little thought 
What wealth the show to me had brought: 

For oft, when on my couch I lie 

In vacant or in pensive mood, 
They flash upon that inward eye 

Which is the bliss of solitude; 
And then my heart with pleasure fills. 
And dances with the daffodils. 



THREE YEARS SHE GREW IN SUN AND 
SHOWER. 

Three years she grew in sun and shower. 
Then Nature said, "A lovelier flower 

On earth was never sown; 
This child I to myself will take; 
She shall be mine, and I will make 

A Lady of my own. 

" Myself will to my darling be 
Both law and impulse; and with me 
The Girl, in rock and plain. 



22 SELECTIONS FROM AVORDSWORTH's POEMS. 

In earth and heaven, in glade and bovver, 
Shall feel an overseeing power 
To kindle or restrain. 

*' She shall be sportive as the fawn 
That wild with glee across the lawn 

Or up the mountain springs; 
And hers shall be the breathing balm, 
And hers the silence and the calm 

Of mute, insensate things. 

"The floating clouds their state shall lend 
To her, for her the willows bend ; 

Nor shall she fail to see, 
Even in the motions of the Storm, 
Grace that shall mould the Maiden's form 

By silent sympathy. 

"The stars of midnight shall be dear 
To her ; and she shall lean her ear 

In many a secret place 
Where rivulets dance their wayward round, 
And beauty born of murmuring sound 
Shall pass into her face. 

"And vital feelings of delight 
Shall rear her form to stately height. 

Her virgin bosom swell ; 
Such thoughts to Lucy I will give 
While she and I together live 
Here in this happy dell." 

Thus Nature spake. — The work was done. — 
How soon my Lucy's race was run ! 

She died, and left to me 
This heath, this calm and quiet scene; 
The memory of what has been, 

And never more will be. 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH's POEMS. 23 



SHE WAS A PHANTOM OF DELIGHT. 

She was a Phantom of delight 
When first she gleamed upon my sight; 
A lovely Apparition, sent 
To be a moment's ornament; 
Her eyes as stars of Twilight fair ; 
Like Twilight's, too, her dusky hair; 
But all things else about her drawn 
From May-time and the cheerful Dawn, 
A dancing Shape, an Image gay. 
To haunt, to startle, and waylay. 

I saw her upon nearer view, 

A Spirit, yet a Woman too ! 

Her household motions light and free, 

And steps of virgin liberty; 

A countenance in which did meet 

Sweet records, promises as svreet ; 

A Creature, not too bright or good 

For human nature's daily food; 

For transient sorrows, simple wiles. 

Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles. 

And now I see with eye serene 

The very pulse of the machine ; 

A Being breathing thoughtful breath, 

A Traveler between life and death ; 

The reason firm, the temperate will, 

Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill: 



24 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH's POEMS. 

A perfect Woman, nobly planned, 
To warn, to comfort, and command; 
And yet a Spirit still, and bright 
With something of an angel light. 



STEPPING WESTWARD. 

While my fellow-traveler and I were walking by the side of Loch 
Ketterine one fine evening after sunset, in our road to a hut where, 
in the course of our tour we had been hospitably entertained some 
weeks before, we met, in one of the loneliest parts of that solitary 
region, two well-dressed women, one of whom said to us, by way of 
greeting, " What, you are stepping westward ? " 

" What, you are stepping westward 1 — " Yea." 
'T would be a wildish destiny, 
If we, who thus together roam 
In a strange land, and far from home, 
Were in this place the guests of chance: 
Yet who would stop, or fear to advance, 
Though home or shelter he had none, 
With such a sky to lead him on ? 

The dewy ground was dark and cold; 

Behind, all gloomy to behold ; 

And stepping westward seemed to be 

A kind of heavenly destiny: 

I liked the greeting; 't was a sound 

Of something without place or bound ; 

And seemed to give me spiritual right 

To travel through that region bright. 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTIl's POEMS. 25 

The voice was soft, and she who spake 

Was walking by her native lake; 

The salutation had to nie 

The very sound of courtesy: 

Its power was felt; and while my eye 

Was fixed upon the glowing sky, 

The echo of the voice inwrought 

A human sweetness with the thought 

Of traveling through the world that lay 

Before me in my endless way. 



YARROW UNVISITED. 

See the variou!? Poems the scene of which is laid upon the hanks of 
the Yarrow ; in particular, the exquisite Ballad of Hamilton, begin- 
ning 

" Busk ye, busk yc, my bonny, bonny Bride, 
Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome Marrow ! " 

From Stirling Castle we had seen 
The mazy Forth unraveled; 
Had trod the banks of Clyde, and Tay, 
And with the Tweed had traveled; 
And when we came to Clovenford, 
Then said my " winsome 3Iarrow,'^ 
" What'er betide, we'll turn aside, 
And see the Braes of Yarrow." 

" Let Yarrow folk,//«6' Selkirk Town, 
Who have been buying, selling. 
Go back to Yarrow — 'tis their own — 
Each maiden to her dwelling! 
3 



26 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTh's POEMS. 

On Yarrow's banks let herons feed, 
Hares couch, and rabbits burrow ! 
But we will downward with the Tweed, 
Nor turn aside to Yarrow. 

"There's Galla Water, Leader Haughs, 
Both lying right before us ; 

And Dryborough, where with the chiming Tweed 
The lintwhites sing in chorus: 
There's pleasant Tiviot-dale, a land 
Made blithe with plough and harrow: 
Why throw away a needful day 
To go in search of Yarrow ? 

" What's Yarrow but a river bare, 
That glides the dark hills under? 
There are a thousand such elsewhere 
As worthy of your wonder." 
Strange words they seemed of slight and scorn; 
My True-love sighed for sorrow; 
And looked me in the face, to think 
1 thus could speak of Yarrow ! 

"Oh! green," said I, "are Yarrow's holms. 
And sweet is Yarrow flowing! 
Fair hangs the apjjle frae the rock, 
But we will leave it growing. 
O'er hilly path, and open Strath, 
We'll wander Scotland thorough ; 
But, though so near, we will not turn 
Into the Dale of Yarrow. 

" Let beeves and home-bred kine partake 
The sweets of Burn-mill meadow 
The swan on still St. Mary's La 
Float double, swan and shadow ! 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTh's POEMS. * 27 

We will not see them — will not go, 
To-day, nor yet to-morrow; 
Enough if in our hearts we know 
There's such a place as Yarrow. 

" Be Yarrow Stream unseen, unknown I 
It must, or we shall rue it : 
We have a vision of our own ; 
Ah! why should we undo it? 
The treasured dreams of times long past, 
We '11 keep them, winsome Marrow ! 
For when we're there, although 'tis fair, 
'Twill be another Yarrow ! 

" If Care with freezing years should come, 
And wandering seem but folly — 
Should we be loth to stir from home. 
And yet be melancholy ; 
Should life be dull, and spirits low, 
'Twill soothe us in our sorrow, 
That earth has something yet to show, 
The bonny holms of Yarrow ! " 



THE SOLITARY REAPER. 

Behold her, single in the field, 
Yon solitary Highland Lass! 
Eeaping and singing by herself; 
Stop here, or gently pass ! 



28 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH's POEMS. 

Alone she cuts and binds the grain, 
And sings a melancholy strain ; 

listen ! for the vale profound 
Is overflowing with the sound. 

No Nightingale did ever chant 
More welcome note to weary bands 
Of travelers in some shady haunt, 
Among Arabian sands : 
A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard 
In spring-time from the Cuckoo-bird, 
Breaking the silence of the seas 
Among the farthest Hebrides. 

Will no one tell me what she sings ? — 
Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow 
For old, unhappy, far-oflf things. 
And battles long ago: 
Or is it some more humble lay. 
Familiar matter of to-day ? 
Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain. 
That has been, and moy be again ? 

Whate'er the theme the maiden sang 
As if her song could have no ending; 

1 saw her singing at her work. 
And o'er the sickle bending; — 
I listened, motionless and still ; 
And as I mounted up the hill, 
The music in my heart 1 bore. 
Long after it was heard no more. 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH's POEMS. 29 



HART-LEAP WELL. 



Hart-Leap Well is a small stream of water, about five miles from 
Richmond in Yorkshire, and near the side of the road that leads from 
Richmond to Askrigg. Its name is derived from a remarkable Chase, 
the memory of wliich is preserved by the monuments spoken of in the 
second Part of the following Poem, which monuments do now exist as 
I have there described them. 



PART FIRST 

The Knight had ridden down from Wensley Moor 
With the slow motion of a summei-'s cloud! 
He turned aside toward a Vassal's door, 
And " Bring another horse ! " ho cried cloud. 

" Another horse ! " — That shout the Vassal heard 
And saddled his best Steed, a comely gray ; 
8ir Walter mounted him ; he was the third 
Which he had mounted on that glorious day. 

Joy sparkled in the prancing Courser's eyes; 
The Horse and Hoi-seman are a happy pair; 
But, though Sir Walter like a falcon flies, 
There is a doleful silence in the air. 

A rout this morning left Sir Walter's Hall, 
'i'hat as they galloped made the echoes roar; 
But Horse and Man are vanished, one and all; 
Such race, I think, was never seen before. 

Sir Walter, restless as a veering wind, 
Calls to the few tired Dogs that yet remain ; 
Blanch, Swift, and Music, noblest of their kind, 
Follow, and up the weary mountain strain. 



30 SELECTIONS FROM AVORDSWORTh's POEMS. 

The Knight hallowed, he cheered and chid them on 
With suppliant gestures and upbraiding stern ; 
But breath and eye-sight fail; and, one by one, 
The Dogs are stretched among the mountain fern. 

Where is the throng, the tumult of the race ? 
The bugles that so joyfully were blown? 
This Chase it looks not like an earthly Chase; 
Sir Walter and the Hart are left alone. 

The poor Hart toils along the mountain side; 
I will not stop to tell how far he fled. 
Nor will I mention by what death he died : 
But now the Knight beholds him lying dead. 

Dismounting, then, he leaned against a thorn; 
He had no follower, Dog, nor Man, nor Boy : 
He neither cracked his whip, nor blew his horn, 
But gazed upon the spoil with silent joy. 

Close to the thorn on which Sir Walter leaned, 
Stood his dumb partner in this glorious feat; 
Weak as a lamb the hour that it is yeaned, 
And white with foam as if with cleaving sleet. 

Upon his side the Hart was lying stretched ; 

His nostril touched a spring beneath a hill; 

And with the last deep groan his breath had fetched 

The waters of the sj^ring were trembling still. 

And now, too happy for repose or rest, 

(Never had living man such joyful lot ! ) 

Sir Walter walked all round, north, south, and west, 

And gazed and gazed upon that darling spot. 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH's POEMS, 31 

And climbing up the hill — (it was at least 
Nine roods of sheer ascent) — Sir Walter found 
Three several hoof-marks with the hunted Beast 
Had left imprinted on the grassy ground. 

Sir Walter wiped his face, and cried, " Till .now 
Such siglit was never seen by living eyes: 
Three leaps have borne him from this lofty brow, 
Down to the very fountain where he lies. 

I'll build a Pleasure-house upon this spot, 
And a small Arbor, made for rural joy ; 
' T will be the Traveler's shed, the Pilgrim's cot, 
A place of love for Damsels that are coy. 

A cunning Artist will I have to frame 

A basin for that fountain in the dell ! 

And tliey who do make mention of the same 

From this day forth, shall call it Hart-leap Well. 

And, gallant Stag! to make thy praises known, 
Another monument shall here be raised ; 
Three several Pillars, each a rough-hewn Stone, 
And planted where thy hoofs the turf have grazed. 

And, in the summer-time, when days are long, 
I will come hither with my Paramour; 
And with the Dancers and the Minstrel's song 
We will make merry in that pleasant Bower. 

Till the foundations of the mountains fail 
ily IMansion with its Arbor shall endure; — 
The joy of them who till the fields of Swale, 
And them who dwell among the woods of Ure! " 



32 SELECTIOXS FROM WORDSWORTH's POEMS 

Then home he went, and left the Hart, stone-dead, 
With breathless nostrils stretched among the spring 
— Soon did the Knight perform what he had said, 
And far and wide the fame thereof did ring. 

Ere thrice the Moon into her port had steered, 
A Cup of stone received the living Well ; 
Three Pillars of rude stone Sir Walter reared, 
And built a house of Pleasure in the dell. 

And near the fountain, flowers of stature tall 
With trailing plants and trees were intertwined, — 
Which soon composed a little sylvan Hall, 
A leafy shelter from the sun and wind. 

And thither, when the summer-days were long, 
Sir Walter led his wondering Paramour; 
And with the Dancers and the Minstrel's song, 
Made merriment within that pleasant Bower. 

The Knight, Sir Walter, died in course of time, 
And his bones lie in his paternal vale. — 
And there is matter for a second rhyme. 
And I to do this would add another tale. 

PART SECOND. 

The moving accident is not my trade: 
To freeze the blood T have no ready arts: 
'T is my delight, alone in summer shade. 
To pipe a simple song for thinking hearts. 

As I from Hawes to Eichmond did repair, 
It chanced that I savp, standing in a dell 
Three Aspens at three corners of a square; 
And one, not four yards distant from a Well. 



SELECTIONS FROM TVORDSWORTH's POEMS. 33 

What this imported I could ill divine: 
And, pulling now the rein my horse to stop, 
I saw three Pillars standing in a line, 
The last Stone Pillar on a dark hill-top. 

The trees were gray with neither arms nor head 
Half-wasted the square Mound of tawny green; 
So that you just might say, as then I said, 
" Here in old time the hand of man hath been." 

I looked upon the hill both far and near, 
More doleful place did never eye survey; 
It seemed as if the spring-time came not here. 
And Nature here were willing to decay. 

I stood in various thoughts and fancies lost, 
When one, who was in Shepherd's garb attired. 
Came up the Hollow: — Him did I accost, 
And what this place might be I then inquired. 

The Shepherd stopped, and that same story told 
Which in my former rhyme I have rehearsed. 
"A jolly place/' said he, " in times of old ! 
But something ails it now ; the spot is curst. 

You see these lifeless Stumps of aspen wood — 
Some say that they are beeches, others elms — 
These here the Bower; and here a Mansion stood, 
The finest palace of a hundred realms ! 

The Arbor does its own condition tell ; 
You see the Stones, the Fountain, and the Stream; 
But as to the great Lodge ! you might as well 
Hunt half a day for a forgotten dream. 



34 SELECTIONS FROM ■WORDSWORTh's POEMS. 

There's neither do^c nor heifer, horse nor sheep, 
Will wet hJs lips wittiin that Cup of stone; 
And oftentimes, when all are fast asleep, 
This water doth set forth a dolorous groan. 

Some say that here a murder has been done, 
.And blood cries out for blood ; but, for my part, 
I've guessed, when I've been sitting in the sun. 
That it was all for that unhappy Hart. 

What thoughts must through the Creature's brain have 

passed ! 
Even from the topmost Stone, upon the Steep, 
Are but three bounds — and look. Sir, at this last — 
— Master! it has been a cruel leap. 

For thirteen hours he ran a desperate race ; 
And in my simple mind we can not tell 
What cause the Hart might have to love this place. 
And come and make his death-bed near the Well. 

Here on the grass perhaps asleep he sank, 
Lulled by the Fountain in the summer-tide; 
This water was perhaps the first he drank 
When he had wandered from his mother's side. 

In April here beneath the scented thorn 
He heard the birds their morning carols sing; 
And he, pei'haps, for aught we know, was born 
Not half a furlong from that self-same spring. 

Now, here is neither grass nor pleasant shade ; 

The sun on drearier Hollow never shone ; 

So will it be, as I have often said. 

Till Trees, and Stones, and Fountain, all are gone." 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDS\yORTH's POEMS. 35 

"Gray-headed Shepherd, thou hast spoken well; 
Small differenne lies between thy creed and mine 
This Beast not unobserved by Nature fell ; 
His death was mourned by sympathy divine. 

The Being, that is in the clouds and air, 
That is in the green leaves among the groves, 
Maintains a deep and reverential care 
For the unoffending creatures whom lie loves. 

The Pleasure-house is dust: — behind, before, 
This is no common waste, no common gloom; 
But Nature, in course of time, once more 
Shall here put on her beauty and her bloom. 

She leaves these objects to a slow decay, 

That what we are, and have been, may be known; 

But, at the coming of the milder day. 

These monuments shall be all overgrown. 

One lesson, Shepherd, let us two divide, 

Taught both by what she shows, and what conceals 

Never to blend our pleasure or our pride 

With sorrow of the meanest thing that feels." 



LINES WRITTEN IN EARLY SPRING. 

I heard a thousand blended notes, 
"While in a grove I sat reclined. 

In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts 
Bring sad thouglits to the mind. 



36 SELECTIONS FROM T^ORDSWORTH's POEMS. 

To her fair works did nature link, 

The human soul that through me ran ; 

And much it grieved my heart to think 
What man has made of man. 

Through primrose tufts, in that green bower, 
The periwinkle trailed its wreaths; 

And 'tis my faith that every flower 
Enjoys the air it breathes. 

The birds around me hopped and played, 
Their thoughts I can not measure: — 

But the least motion which they made. 
It seemed a thrill of pleasure. 

The budding twigs spread out their fan, 

To catch the breezy air; 
And I must think, do all I can, 

That there was pleasure there. 

If this belief from heaven be sent, 
If such be nature's holy plan, 

Have I not reason to lament 
What man has made of man? 



ODE TO DUTY. 

"Jam non consilio bonus, sed more eo perductus, ut non tantum 
'eete facere possim, sed nisi recte facero noii possim." 

Stern daughter of the voice of God ! 
Duty! if that name thou love 



SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTIl's POEMS. 37 

Who art a light to guide, a rod 

To check the erring, and reprove; 

Thou, who art victory and law 

When empty terrors overawe ; 

From vain temptations dost set free; 

And calm'st the weary strife of frail humanity ! 

There are who ask not if thine eye 

Bo on them; who, in love and truth, 

Where no misgiving is, rely 

Upon the genial sense of youth : 

Glad Hearts! without reproach or blot; 

Who do thy work, and know it not : 

*>!i ! if through confidence misplaced 

They fail, thy saving arms, dread Power ! around them cast. 

Serene will be our days and bright, 

And happy will our nature be, 

When love is an unerring light, 

And joy its' own security. 

And they a blissful course may hold 

Even now, who, not unwisely bold, 

Live in the spirit of this creed ; 

Yet seek thy firm support, according to their need. 

I, loving freedom, and untried; 

No sport of every random gust, 

Yet being to myself a guide, 

To blindly have reposed my trust : 

And oft, when in my heart was heard 

Thy timely mandate, I deferred 

The task, in smoother wallvs to stray. 

But thee I now would serve more strictly, if I may. 

Thi'ough no disturbance of my soul. 
Or strong compunction in me wrought. 



38 SELECTIONS FROM WORDSWORTH's POEMS, 

I supplicate for thy control; 

But in the quietness of thought; 

Me this unchartered freedom tires; 

I feel the weight of chance-desires : 

My hopes no more must change their name, 

I long for a repose that ever is the same. 

Stern Lawgiver ! yet thou dost wear 
The Godhead's most benignant grace ; 
Nor know we any thing so fair 
As in the smile upon thy face : 
Flowers laugh before thee on their beds, 
And fragrance in thy footing treads; 
Tliou dost preserve the stars from wrong; 
And the most ancient heavens, through Thee, are fresh 
and ctrong. 

To humbler functions, awful Power 

I call thee; I myself commend 

Unto thy guidance from this hour; 

Oh, let my weakness have an end 1 

Give unto me, made lowly wise, 

The spirit of self-sacrifice ; 

The confidence of reason give : 

And in the light of truth thy Bondman let me live. 



THE SEA SHELL. 

I have seen 
A curious child, who dwelt upon a tract 
Of inland ground, applying to his ear 
The convolutions of a smooth-lipped shell; 



SEr.ECTIOXS FROM WORDSWORTH's POEMS. 39 

To which, in silencd'hushed, his very soul 

Listened intensely; and his countenance soon 

Brightened with joy; far from within were heard 

Murmurings, whereby the monitor expressed 

Mysterious union with its native sea. 

Even such a shell the universe itself 

Is to the ear of Faith; and there are times, 

I doubt not, when to you it doth impart 

Authentic tidings of invisible things; 

Of ebb and flow, and ever-during power 

And central peace, subsisting at the heart 

Of endless agitation. Here you stand, 

Adore, and worship, when you know it not; 

Pious beyond the intention of your thought; 

Devout above the meaning of your will. 

— Yes, you have felt, and may not cease to feel. 

The estate of man would be indeed forlorn, 

If false conclusions of the reasoning power 

Made the eye blind, and closed the passages 

Through which the ear converses with the heart. 

Has not the soul, the being of your life, 

Received a shock of awful consciousness, 

In some calm season, when these lofty rocks 

At night's approach bring down the unclouded sky, 

To rest upon their circumambient walls; 

A temple framing of dimensions vast, 

And yet not too enormous for the sound 

Of human anthems, — choral song, or burst 

Sublime of instrumental harmony. 

To glorify the Eternal ! What if these 

Did never break the stillness that prevails 

Here, — if the solemn nightingale be mute, 

And the soft woodlark here did never chant 

Her vespers, — Nature fails not to provide 

Impulse and utterance. The whispering air 

Sends inspiration from the shadowy heights, 



40 sem:ctioxs rr.oM Wordsworth's poems. 

And blind recesses of the caverned rocks; 

The little rills, and waters numberless, 

Inaudible by daylight, blend their notes 

With the loud streams: and often, at the hour 

When issue forth the first pale stars, is heard, 

Within the circuit of this fabric huge, 

One voice, — the solitary raven flying 

Athwart the concave of the dark blue dome, 

Unseen, perchance above all power of sight, — 

An iron knell! with echoes from afar 

Faint, — and still fainter, — as the cry with which 

The wanderer accomjmnies her flight 

Through the calm region,' fades upon the ear, 

Diminishing by distance till it seemed 

To expire; yet from the abyss is caught again 

And yet again, recovered {The E:ccursion.) 



SONNET ON MILTON. 

Milton! thou shouldst be living at this hour: 

England hath need of thee; she is a fen 

Of stagnant waters; altar, sword, and pen. 

Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and bower, 

Have forfeited their ancient English dower 

Of inward happiness. We are selfish men ; 

O, raise us up, return to us again ; 

And give vis manners, virtue, freedom, power! 

Thy soul was like a Star, and dwelt apart : 

Thou hadst a voice whose sound was like the sea; 

Pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free, 

So didst thou travel on life's common way. 

In cheerful godliness; and yet thy heart. 

The lowliest duties on herself did lay. 



ROBERT CLARKB & GO'S 

TEACHERS' READING-CIRGLE BOOKS. 



ESSAYS ON EDUCATIONAL REFORMERS. By 
Rev. Robert Hebert Quick, Trinity College, 
Cambridge. 

Consisting of Essays on — i. The Schools of the Jesuits; 2. 
on Ascham, Montaigne, Ratich, and Milton; 3. Comenius ; 4. 
Locke; 5. Rousseau's Emile ; 6. Basedow, and the Fhilanthropin ; 
7. Pestalozzi; 8. Jacotot; 9. Herbert Spencer; 10. Thoughts and 
Suggestions about Teaching Children; II. Some Remarks about 
Moral and Religious Instruction, with an Appendix on various 
matters relating to teaching, and Froebel and the Kindergarten. 

12mo. 351 pages. Cloth, $1.00. 

This book has received the warmest commendations from the 
highest authorities on Education in Great Britain and this country. 
It has been selected to be read by the Teachers' Reading Circles of 
nearly all the states in which they have been established : New York, 
Ohio, Rhode Island, Minnesota, Wisconsin, etc. 

\Prof. John Hancock -writes of it as follows -.^ 

There has been an immense activity among educators, within the last few 
years, in the discussion of methods of instruction. With this activity, has arisen 
a demand, among the more intelligent of this country, for a higher class of 
professional reading than has heretofore been accessible to them. They are no 
longer satisfied with works which are merely hand-books of the routine works of 
the school-room — books which have a certain value, but not the highest — but 
they are anxious to furnish themselves with the production of those thinkers, 
who, putting aside the discussion of mere details, have grappled with the great 
principles which underlie all correct methods of teaching To seekers for 
such productions, the "Essays on Educational Fc/orviefs," by Robert He- 
bert Quick, will prove a book of the highest interest. I know of no educa- 
tional work in English of equal value. No teacher who has an ambition to 
emancipate himself from a servile adherence to the traditional methods of 
teaching can read the book without profit. Beginning with Roger Ascham, it 
gives us an account of the lives and schemes of most of the great thinkers and 
workers in the educational field, down to Herbert Spencer, with the addition of 
a valuable appendi.x of thoughts and suggestions on teaching. The list includes, 
besides the names mentioned, those of Montaigne, Ratich, Milton, Comenius, 
Locke, Rousseau, Basedow, Pestalozzi, and Jacotot. In the lives and thoughts 
of these eminent men is presented the whole philosophy of education as de- 
veloped in the progress of modern times. 

I hough the Essays are, from the nature of things, largelv compilations, yet 
the author has performed his part of the work with signal ability. He has been 
l^^PPy, '00, in his choice of a method of treating the question which forms the 
theme of his sketches. The biographical form has enabled him to invest it with 
an interest impossible in a formal discussion of it in its merely philosophical 
bearings. 

The book is not limited to a discussion of theories of education, but on almost 
every page may be found most valuable suggestions on matters of practice in 
teaching. Indeed, I know of no work in which theory and practice are so skill- 
fuUv blended. 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 

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By rev. JAMES CURRIE, M A. 

Principal of the Church of Scotland Training College, Edinburgh. 

Consisting of Three Parts, viz: 

Fai-t I. A Manual of Pi'inciples, illustrating the Objects and 
Laws of Education in their connection with the Doctrines of Mental 
Science. 

Part 2. A Manual of School Management, treating of School 
Organization, Discipline, and the Art of Teaching. 

Part 3. A Manual of Method, showing how the Art of Teaching 
is applied to all the branches which form ]iart of Common School 
Education. 

12ino. 440 pages. Cloth, $1.00. 

TESTIMONIALS. 

It i?; an excellent work and should be found in the hands of all our teachers. 
A thorough study of the treatise by all our instructors would increase the value 
of our schools twentv-five per cent in a short time. — The School Journal, New 
York. 

Space would fail us to give any thing like an adequate idea of the wide s-cope 
and comprehensive sweep of this work. While it deserves to find a place in 
every school or college library, it is in itself a library of almost every thing that 
can be implied in the term School Education. The author's reputation in the 
educational world will secure his book a warm welcome among all those who 
have at heart the true theory and practice of education. — J'hc 'J'cachcr, ] hila- 
delphia. 

The book is, in a word, a complete compendium of pedigogics, and should be 
in the library of every teacher whose aim is to merit noble rank in his pro- 
fession by a thorough understanding of its demands. 'J'he chapters on the con- 
ditions and objects of moral education are especially urged upon the perusal of 
all thoughtful teachers.— .SVArJo/ Herald, Chicago. 

The work is full of sound thoughts and principles. No one who reads it will 
lay it aside without the conviction that education rests upon the broadest and 
most profound philosophy of which the human mind is capable. It should be 
in the hands of many Missouri teachers. — JZ/jjo//?-/ School Jouritnl. 

We often have inquiry for a work of teaching, covering the general ground 
of principles, duties, methods, etc., for use by teachers. We know of no better 
book than the above to recommend. The more one studies it, the more practi- 
cal, comprehensive, helpful it appears to be. — Wisconsin Journal of Edncatiov. 

This deserves to be classed as the most comprehensive and complete work on 
education, as to its topics, hiliierto published. Its style is lucid and forcible, 
its treatment of subjects just, its arrangement methodical, and its whole execu- 
tion that of a scholar and of a conscientious and experienced teacher. — South- 
"western Jotirnal of Education. 



